Isosceles
by I'm Nova
Summary: Dimension-hopping, Doctor Strange ends in 221B, Baker Street...and an intervention is clearly in order! Happy Birthday, Ennui Enigma!


_A.N. Happy birthday, my dearest Ennui Enigma! And also so many apologies. This is short and probably awful, but I was hit by the strangest writer's block – especially about this. Sorry! Also, entirely unbetaed and unbritpicked because I wrote this to the last second. *Sweatdrops*_

Isosceles

Stephen Strange (Doctor Strange, sorry), had always been an eager and omnivorous learner. So of course, after being initiated to the knowledge of mystic powers and the existence of the multiverse and losing his mentor, and with it a limit enforcer, he decided that visiting a few of these parallel universes was simply a must.

If anyone had asked, he'd say that it was a safety measure. He already had to deal with an evil being from a different dimension, who had found followers to corrupt and been too strong to vanquish. (How he did manage to persuade the creature to retire was, if he said so himself, a stroke of genius). Exploring the multiverse and preferably dealing with threats before they became too strong to be defeated was the most logic option, wasn't it?

If he'd been entirely honest, though, he would have to admit he did that only because he _could_ – and because there were literally worlds, no, universes to discover. Why would he ignore them and just sit in his own?

He wasn't stupid. He started small. Universes relatively close to his own, where only a few key characteristics were different. Places where his attire might raise an eyebrow, but nothing would accidentally land him in serious trouble. Not unless he was entirely reckless, at least.

Of course, being rather new to the procedure meant he still had to refine it a bit. He didn't mean to enter an universe appearing in someone's sitting room. A look at the young man lounging on the sofa in a blue dressing gown and inside out pyjamas, though, and his mistake was immediately explained. They could have been twins, if not for the difference in hairstyles. Well, maybe not exactly twins, the man looked a bit younger than him, but certainly brothers. He'd read enough about the theory of multiverse to know of different avatars of a soul. That he'd accidentally stumbled in the home of this universe version of him made sense.

The young man looked up, stared at him a moment, and then turned against the sofa's backrest, offering him his back. Was he…sulking? He was mumbling something against the cushions, though. What Strange heard was, "I didn't take any drugs, this time, I'm sure… John doctored the tea, did he? Is this payback for Baskerville? But why did he leave for work, then…I watched him…This is childish! Why isn't he here?"

"In defence of this John, whoever he might be, I have to say you've not been drugged, Mr…" the Sorcerer Supreme declared, after clearing his throat awkwardly. He went to the mantle, where he saw some post pinned with – was that a knife? "Sherlock Holmes?" he asked dubiously. What sort of ridiculous name was that?

The young man turned immediately and spit out viciously, "Oh, don't be ridiculous! You're obviously an hallucination. You appeared in my sitting room out of nowhere! And for some reason – I'll have to ask John what he's cut the drugs with – you scrambled my mind palace to the point where both our mental images became scrambled together. You're obviously a surgeon, like John. Well, an ex-surgeon, going by the trembling of your hands – again, like him. Nothing so interesting as being wounded in action for you, though. You clearly lack the military background. Some sort of accident, then. Boring. As for being me…well, I need only a mirror to determine that. Though, that facial hair? I wouldn't be seen dead looking so old."

The Sorcerer Supreme was more than ready to rant back, but before he could, he found his throat squeezed by his cloak, tugging him away from the annoying boy with eagerness. He was forced to take a step back, but that wasn't enough for the garment. When it started tugging again, the doctor stood his ground and growled, "Oh, go by yourself, whatever caught your eyes!"

At which point the red cloak detached itself from his shoulders, and floated happily towards the hall stand. While Sherlock stared in wide eyed wonder (he'd never had a trip like this), the levitating cloak draped itself over his Belstaff and started…petting it? "So do you keep some powerful artefact too?" the sorcerer queried, taking a step towards his enamoured cloak. Maybe there was something to look into, beside his avatar.

"Nope," Sherlock replied, popping the 'p'. "Just a product of the highest quality sartorial production… they seem to have in common the high collar and swishy potential, though," he added, before sighing, "Weirdest trip ever."

"An insufferable know-it-all of a drug addict? Am I really so close to being that pathetic?" Strange wondered aloud. He'd picked one of the adjacent universes, only a few details different from his own. The prospect that he could have been this boy was…unsettling. What if he hadn't found the Ancient One? Would he have turned to drugs, too?

"User, not addict. You're me. You should bloody know. And of course you're intolerable. Everyone hates us…and even if you're part John, well, his friends don't appreciate him half as much as he deserves, too," Sherlock retorted, glaring at him.

In that moment, someone else entered the flat. After a cursory look to the room, the man asked, smiling happily, "Sherlock? Do we have another case like the Geek Interpreter?"

"John," the sleuth choked off, "Do… do you see him too?"

"Of course I do, what's wrong with…" John replied, coming forward quickly, instinctively protective, when his friend started hyperventilating. A better look at the possible threat, and words faded away. "Are you a relative?"

"Not exactly," Strange replied, with an enigmatic smile. "If you're John the army doctor, you might want to do something about the panic attack your friend is having. I know it happened to me when I was forced to face the multiverse. I'd take care of him, as a colleague, but I suspect he doesn't want me anywhere close."

John hadn't waited for instructions to take Sherlock in his arms and start murmuring soothing nonsense, begging him to breathe in time with himself. The blond glared at the so called 'colleague'.

"One thing I don't understand, though. He seemed fine at first, chalking it all to some drug…but he acknowledged this was not some sort of trip when you saw me. What is so odd with that? If this was a drug trip, he could have dreamed you up too, wouldn't he? You live together. It wouldn't be odd," the sorcerer wondered aloud.

Still partially wheezing, Sherlock growled, "As if I wouldn't know the difference between Mind Palace John and actual John! Do you know how insulting that is?!"

John wanted to point out that half the time his friend didn't remember who he'd established things with, but decided that doing so in front of a ridiculously dressed stranger was not the best option. He didn't want to have to deal with a sulk right now.

"Mind Palace?" Strange echoed, flabbergasted.

Before his friend could start a rant, John interjected, "It's a memory technique – you imagine somewhere and…"

"I know the method of loci. I've used it since I was a child! But calling it a palace…that's ridiculous! And much tackier if he actually built one in his brain," the sorcerer snapped.

Sherlock gasped in outrage, and John rolled his eyes, exclaiming, "Of course your next-universe self would still know memory techniques AND be a rude asshole."

"Doctor Stephen Strange at your service. How did you figure out that?" Strange queried, leaning towards the blond.

"Figure out what?" John asked, honestly puzzled.

"That I am his avatar from a different universe. I didn't state it outright, and you weren't here when I.. well, sort of broke in," the sorcerer explained.

"Oh, that. Easy," the former army doctor declared, shrugging.

Strange raised an eyebrow in doubt. The man did not seem initiated in the mystic arts. His local avatar had apparently decided to stop panicking and/or fighting him, because Sherlock cut in smugly, "John is smarter than he looks. Only an idiot would underestimate him."

"No, seriously. You mentioned the multiverse. I like sci-fi quite a lot, you know. And you looking like his bloody clone was a rather obvious clue," John expounded, smiling.

"A clone with a horrific taste in grooming, John," the sleuth quipped, "I promise I won't ever look that old."

"Probably because someone will murder you well before you can reach forty," the sorcerer huffed, annoyed, "if you keep insulting everyone you meet. I have to retire my previous statement, though."

"Which one?" the consulting detective asked, curious.

"When I called you pathetic. After all, you still haven't managed to drive away the person you love. Point to you," Strange admitted, wistfully. The cloak abandoned her new friend to rush to hug him. "Yeah, yeah, I know, I'll always have you," he remarked, caressing her.

"No, we're not together," John hurried to correct, as always. "I mean, we live together, but we aren't a couple." He didn't move farther from his flatmate, though.

"Are you sure? It isn't easy to fool a sorcerer, you know. Auras, red threads, and all that," Strange retorted, fingers itching to make the blatant connection between the two idiots visible to the naked eye. They weren't afraid he would be a homophobe, were they? His words couldn't possibly be misunderstood, and anyway, he had more brain than that.

"Parlour tricks," Sherlock sniffed, glaring. Oh my God. That glare was very explicit. It said, "Don't you dare to give me away."

No matter how obnoxious the man was, leaving the pair to stew in reciprocal pining of the size their very souls revealed was against every instinct of the sorcerer. He might have been too arrogant and blind and reckless and so many other things to keep the woman he loved. Given his current fate, fighting any sort of overpowered supernatural threat on a regular basis, having her out of his life was probably for the best. He'd only put her in peril. But these two…they had a chance. Former army, his avatar had said of the other. Even should his incarnation court danger once again, John would not be scared away.

"That's what I thought. Until I met someone was approach to showing the truth was even more extreme than mine, I'll assure you. But sending you on a multiple universes trip would be a waste. After all, I don't aim to acquire you as a disciple. You can keep busy your own way, which if I know you at all, I'm sure you do," Strange remarked, smiling.

"Bloody workaholic, the whole lot of you, aren't you? Did you give the married to my work spiel to your girlfriend, too? In the end, rather than the start, I suppose," John cut in, raising an eyebrow.

"I did not. But probably I should have. It would have been more honest," the sorcerer admitted. So this was one of the reasons that kept the two smitten idiots apart. Not that he didn't understand the feeling of being too concentrated on career to see what was right in front of you. He wished that not every one of his avatar had to learn the lesson by means as painful as him. "This is a nice trick, though," he concluded. A few flicks of his hands, and they were all ensconced in the mirror dimension.

Both men gasped in shock at the suddenly fractured look of space around them. "Get us back!" John growled threateningly.

"Don't worry… this is the least dangerous place you can ever visit. Nothing that happens here has any effect in the real world," Strange declared.

Sherlock got immediately a calculating look into his eyes. "And if I wanted to replicate that on my own, what would I need to do?"

"Oh no, you are not bending the very fabric of space, mister! Your experiments are dangerous enough when it is just noxious chemicals and random body parts you're playing with!" the blogger snapped immediately.

"But that's the point, John! You always complain when I stink up the flat, scratch the table or ruin things one way or another. Don't you see? This is the perfect solution!" the consulting detective argued, pacing like a caged lion.

"Yes! And rather than scratching the table, with this practice, if something goes unexpectedly, you could be trapped in a pocket dimension without a way to get out. No cases at all, Sherlock. Lestrade wouldn't be able to reach you. How long until you go completely insane, mmm? What do you think?" John retorted. He was frustrated, and fine, scared shitless of what this…this caped tit had thrown in their lives.

The sleuth glared at his friend. Hands raised in a pacifying gesture, Strange intervened, "Trust me, you don't want to bother to learn that just to keep your table scratch-free. Besides, if you're anything like me, you'll find learning it horribly frustrating. Your brain is your best weapon…and switching the whole way you use it is not as easy as you think. No matter how many times it was explained to me, I couldn't figure out where to start."

"Well, you clearly did in the end, and if you want to insinuate you're more intuitive than me…" the sleuth trailed off, now glowering at his alter ego and challenging him to claim any sort of superiority.

"I did," the sorcerer nodded. "After my teacher decided turning training into a literal matter of life and death was the way to go. It's incredible what survival instinct can do to open one's inner eye." He snorted sarcastically. "I have a feeling your friend would object to me recklessly endangering your life, though."

"You can bet I would," John agreed, crossing his arms and physically putting himself between the two tall idiots, a barely contained ball of protective rage.

"So, since the matter is settled, I'll just let you enjoy the no-consequence state for a while. In private," Strange announced, grinning. Yes, his plan was childish and cliché and probably ridiculous. But he was tired to look into his own face and feel the helpless pining coming in waves. He might have fucked up his own sentimental life, but some avatar of his would be happy. Even if he had to resort to the mystical equivalent of locking the two in a closet until they gave into their instincts.

The blond caught his wrist before he could form the first runes in a firm but not painful hold. "Oh no, mister. You're our pass to get out. You're not going anywhere unless you free us first. Got it?" Even if Sherlock hadn't told him, Strange would have guessed the man had been military then. The officer quality emanated with powerful physicality.

The sorcerer stilled. This might not be his usual type, not on any account, but it was too easy to want to please this man. It was no wonder that his self in this dimension was so smitten. The poor thing never stood a chance.

"Let him go," Sherlock rumbled. "Really, John. With the knowledge of anatomy from his previous career as a doctor, and his obvious powers to manipulate space, if the man wanted us killed he could turn our organs inside out. Trapping us in a pocket dimension until we die of thirst is the most idiotic plan I've ever heard. And it would give Mycroft time to figure out how to get us out. No matter what powers the man has, he couldn't pass for me with anyone who truly knew me."

"You're right, of course. I mean no harm. But I am wondering if we're truly as different as you'd like to think," Strange retorted, a playful look in his eyes. "Besides the obvious external traits, that is."

"Is that a challenge?" the sleuth quipped.

John had let the sorcerer go and taken a step back, looking between the two men and wondering how these two would settle the obvious rivalry.

Strange sighed. Was he that competitive? Maybe he was looking at this from the wrong angle. Maybe this wasn't competitiveness, but a simple urge to repel the other-dimensional stranger (ah! that was a silly pun, but not so bad) to ensure his loved ones would be safe.

His avatar might know intellectually that he meant no harm, but that didn't mean that he couldn't be devastating if he shifted mood. Not that he would, but apparently, Sherlock did not trust himself enough to consistently pick the right side. Keeping him engaged would ensure that, if he did decide it was time to wreak havoc, his other self would be his primary target. Clever boy.

"It wasn't meant to be. But don't let me stop you, if you feel the need to," the sorcerer quipped, smiling. Both reassuring and letting him know that Stephen acknowledged his right to follow whatever strategy made him feel safe.

Apparently the Cloak of Levitation had gotten tired of their dancing around things. She detached herself from his shoulders and half-pushed half-dragged the detective to stumble over his friend. Sherlock let out a few shameful squeaks of protest, but to his credit, he'd never before been manhandled by a stubborn piece of clothing, which ignored steadily his attempts to get free.

Once the detective steadied himself by catching his friend's good shoulder, the cloak apparently decided her good deed for the day was done, relaxing and drooping off the detective's body. Though, when Sherlock mumbled a "Sorry," and tried to take a step back, the cloak came alive again, twisting around his legs and John's, almost making the doctor fall too in the process. "This is harassment!" the consulting detective growled, glaring at his lookalike.

"Don't look at me," Strange replied, raising trembling hands in a pacifying gesture. "I know it might seem weird, but that garment has a will of its own… and it's quite stubborn, as you've seen. I'd just stay close to your friend. If you're lucky, the cloak is going to get bored soon and wander somewhere. After all, it is notoriously fickle."

"Oh, good," the sleuth snorted sarcastically. "And until then? What do you propose?"

"What about a game?" the sorcerer retorted, with a lopsided smile.

"Not Cluedo," John interjected immediately.

The consulting detective pouted. He solved the case. Whatever the rules said was all careful misdirection. "Operation?" he proposed.

"With two former surgeons in the room? Really?" Strange countered, smiling. True, his hands might be a trembling mess, but it didn't mean that he couldn't right them for a moment channelling the right amount of energy. Some might call it cheating. He called it using the full scope of his talents...besides, he'd always been awfully competitive.

"Well, what do you propose?" Sherlock bit back, glaring.

"What about something you won't need more than our brains for? We turn on the radio and guess as many specifics about the songs that come on as we can – album, year, title and so on? I'm rather good in my universe, but well, this is a different one – it'll be interesting to see how many details are different here," Stephen proposed.

John started chuckling at that. "Oh, no. I'm not that good, and Sherlock...well, he concedes. He might have learned to play a few modern pieces to please Mrs. Hudson and me, but unless we get a classical music station I doubt he'd be able to compete."

"And why would I want to? Wasting brain space on pop songs? Seriously?" the sleuth remarked, sounding honestly scandalised.

"Everyone needs a hobby," the sorcerer replied, shrugging. "Why, what's in that mind palace of yours?"

"Useful data," Sherlock sneered, "some of us want to solve criminal cases rather than play around."

"Two hundred and forty-three types of tobacco ash," John revealed, grinning. "But the amazing fact is that he really solves cases with that. And maybe I have an idea." He was mad, but it was since he'd heard of this weird, no-consequence world that he'd been pondering over what he'd really like to do if he was ensured no consequences for the eventual mess up. Though this wasn't probably what Strange meant when he said the physical world wouldn't be affected – and Sherlock was here with him, anyway, so he would be marked by the experience. Still...John has lost an entire Wednesday, once. If he went through with that and things blew up on his face, maybe this apparently all-powerful version of his friend will agree to wipe the memory from Sherlock's mind palace, if he promised to never attempt to again.

"What?" the sleuth asked, and damn, he was breathing it in his ear because the damn cloak still wouldn't let them go.

"You said he couldn't trick someone who knew you well. And, well, I might not have Mycroft's brain, but I do know you and your quirks. So I was thinking – what if I keep my eyes closed, and you talk. You'll have to lose the accent, doctor, but for someone who manipulates time and space I'm sure that's no biggie. Or maybe... you touch, and I have to deduce which one of you it is," John explained, heart in his throat, hoping they won't call his bluff, question his motives...

"You've never even seen me play with Mycroft, and you want to play Deductions," Sherlock remarked, sounding like a proud parent. True, only the two of them were close enough that they could possibly be taken for each other, so it wasn't like the other two could take their turn. Though, maybe... surgeon hands, both Strange and John...if Sherlock had his senses way more impaired than simply closing his eyes, it might be worth doing a round.

Not that he _wanted_ Strange's hand anywhere on him – he might be vain, but he wasn't that big a narcissist. Still, if this was truly not a wondrous trip, but actual fact, he was rather proud that – annoying as his other self was – he picked John's career. He'd always admired his friend's talent. The detective can deduce what happened – find motive, for a murder as well as for a coffee stain – but only John knew what to do in the present – when they met people who happened to be still alive, and needed help to stay that way.

John was a saviour, first and foremost. Apparently, in some universe, even one where he wasted brain space on ridiculous things like pop song, Sherlock (or his not-evil-twin) had figured out how to keep people alive, too, instead of being lost and useless. The consulting detective envied his other self with a burning passion for that...And still, he was rather incline this should all be credited to John Watson. With the man jumping universe like they popped at Speedy's, who was to say he hadn't shadowed John in his uni days and siphoned knowledge out of him?

A shared look among the two brunets, and Sherlock went first...mimicking the doctor's American accent. Exactly the inverse of what John had requested, but after all, Sherlock was great at language – he could blend in the crowd in many foreign countries. It was probably easier than require the other man to talk the Queen's English.

The consulting detective uttered only a word, "Doctor," to make it harder to guess. It might be silly of him, but he was competitive, and throwing John off the scent was the point, now. It was what a criminal would do, and Deductions might be a game but it was also training – it always had been.

Still, after a few seconds of silence, when he frowned deeply, John uttered with certainty, "Sherlock."

"Correct! Brilliant, John," Stephen praised instinctively. His avatar's imitation had really been impressive.

He did not mean this to be the following round, but the blond took it as such, because he replied immediately, "Strange. But this was too easy – never mind the accent, I've heard Sherlock tell me that – just the once, obviously – and I'm not about to forget how it feels."

Sherlock blushed and frowned at the same time. He didn't know that they would be sharing personal details, or – yes, that was rather the point of Deductions, but he was used to logical arguments. Not discussions of feelings. Still, he bit his lips. If they simply took turns, it would get boring soon for everyone involved.

A nod, and Strange understood he was supposed to continue. "Brain," he said, looking for a random word. It was a single one, like the other man had done. It should indeed make things harder.

This time, it took John almost a minute to say, "Strange, again." Insulting other people's brain might be his friend's favourite hobby. But the other was a doctor, body parts would be at the tip of his tongue. In the end, it was something the shorter man wouldn't have been able to define that tipped his choice.

"Feelings?" Sherlock sneered. That was as good as guessing. It destroyed the logical faculties. They should stop playing, at this point.

John chuckled. "Sherlock, of course. No one else can despise so much such a common word. But you have to tell me if I got the others right, though."

"Yes, all of them," the sorcerer replied. This man was...interesting. He wasn't using astral projection to cheat, or anything of the sort, but he suspected that he was unconsciously, probably low-level sensitive to auras or other not-quite-physical cues. God, the potential in him. No, no. The sorcerer wasn't supposed to look for a disciple here. Besides, his avatar would have Stephen murdered if he tried to snatch his companion away.

"Well, it seems I can tell you apart when you're speaking...and we don't want Sherlock to get bored. Or you, colleague. I have a feeling that you'd scoff at anything boring just as hard as him, other self or not. You might have changed career, but even if I'm not the world's only consulting detective, I can still identify another doctor...and you weren't a GP. You were a high-end, don't bother me unless you're dying of something interesting surgeon," John pointed out, opening his eyes for a moment.

Smart, indeed. Sensitive, possibly. Not many would have read his past career in the trembling mess, shielded in mystic, he'd become. "I'm not proud of that, but...true. I even had a grading system for patient and wouldn't accept the ones 'not worth my time'. Or that I thought I couldn't heal," Strange admitted, with a self-deprecating smile.

"That's the first sensible thing I've heard from you," the sleuth huffed, crossing his arms. Why was he speaking of it as a flaw?

"As I was saying, we should up the ante. Since I recognise your voice...we'll do without. And since by sight your differences are rather obvious, I'll go by touch...and, I suppose, smell since you're bound to get close," John added. He almost ended in 'taste, too', but he wouldn't force Sherlock to kiss him. Not for a 'game' – he suspected his flatmate would go very far to offer data for a proper deduction round, if he requested it.

"Boundaries, John?" Sherlock asked, surprising both men in the room. Truth is, having the chance to touch his beloved – beyond the friendly, occasional guiding hand or accidental brush – was a temptation too big. Better set the rules before he was a bit not good.

"You can't possibly expect me to obtain the full range of data from contact through jumpers, so I wouldn't mind if you touched skin. And I'm not exactly shy – army will rid you of that quickly – so I don't mind if you want me to undress to have a bit more of skin to land clues on. Boundaries...we're all adult, sensible men. We know where not to touch without permission," John concluded, shrugging. Oh God, he was mad. He'd just invited Sherlock to touch as much of his naked skin as he liked – and that crossdimensional visitor, too, because why not. Anyone who looked like the sleuth was welcome to touch – he's had enough tall dark and curly girlfriends to admit the fact to himself, at least. This will end in disaster. But what happens here doesn't count...and Sherlock can always delete that this ever happened.

"Then undress as much as you're comfortable," Strange prompted. He wasn't supposed to want to see the man naked, and Sherlock was already glaring at him for it, but...he was curious, all right? Curiosity had always been – and would probably always be – his fatal flaw.

In minutes, the blond was down to his pants, apparently thinking nothing of both men having ample space to play with...and he closed his eyes again. Interesting. He wasn't concerned about what the sorcerer would do. Not that he needed to be.

The detective was the first to touch, glowering at his double as if to challenge him to dare to land a hand first. Not that Strange would have. He wasn't the one who'd clearly ached too long. It was a soft touch – a caress, truly – along the borders of John's shoulder scar. And once again, the blond guessed it. "Sherlock," he breathed, not hesitant, but apparently surprised.

Strange took that as permission to move, too – the detective had got his turn – and, hands steadied by a bit of chakra, he touched lightly the centre of John's forehead. It was the chakra associated with denial, and he could feel that this needed still a bit of work. True, the man had come far, literally baring himself...but a last little push would not hurt. It might have been a dead giveaway, 'practicing' during the game, because the other man identified him immediately.

Both brunets did not strictly 'take turns' – that'd be too easy – but they did progressively become bolder and bolder in their touches. A couple of turns, and Sherlock found himself scraping a nipple with a manicured nail. Strange had circled to John's back and knelt to pet a strong calf. They went with whatever took their fancy – and, honestly, if – beside their name – it dragged some sort of interesting sound from the man willingly caught between them, neither objected.

And then, of course, it had to happen. Hesitant at first, obviously, but – John had never specified "hands only," so Sherlock dived with his lips with his owns. After that, all bets were off. John himself shimmied out of his pants, last boundary destroyed, and honestly, if he remembered only half the time to call out either name (still surprisingly getting it right each time), neither of the other men cared. Pleasure was pleasure, and in some way, the shorter man's was the common goal they'd agreed on, and their own came as an afterthought.

Whatever shyness they'd started with – John and Sherlock incredulous this was really happening, not just another dream, and Strange, well, that was so not what he'd had in mind when he set out dimension-hopping – had long disappeared by this point. John had stopped being a pliant object for their affections and started touching back, petting, kissing, grabbing... True, technically that offered extra data and threw the game off, but the game was long forgotten now. Only need and relish and love remained.

Until the blond started calling a name – a name only – again and again and again. Regardless of who was doing what, or in what position they were, "Sherlock," was the word falling from John's lips. Like a prayer. Like a mantra. And if Stephen knew anything, it was that you don't interrupt other people's mantras – not unless you wanted a very angry disciple at you. Oh well. It was their first time. They deserved it as something private.

This didn't mean that he didn't have a few things to smooth over, first. He could have slipped into any of their rooms and procured lube as a last gift, but he could do one better. Space shifted some more, and both men found themselves gently pushed out of mirror dimension...and onto a bed (the closest one).

Before going back home (bless for the hard-earned privacy of his attic, because he really needed it now), he left a quick note with instructions on how to contact him. Not that he expected to be invited to any more...trysts. But a hint of magic could always be needed.

Neither John nor Sherlock noticed at all their uninvited guest's sudden disappearance, to be honest, too involved in their lovemaking. Hands, lips, tongues finally free to reach and taste everything they'd always wanted...Breaching and conquering secret places, to each other's ecstasy.

It was only much, much later that reality started computing...Not only after they reached their peak, but after they woke after a restorative nap, almost surprised, on the same bed, sated and happy.

"This is not the mirror dimension anymore," John pointed out, feeling rather like Dorothy, voice rough with sleep and arms decidedly not abandoning Sherlock's body, held in a loose hug.

The sleuth's only reaction was a vague humming.

"Does this mean that what we just did changes reality?" the blogger asked, a bit awed.

The detective's body immediately went rigid in his embrace, and the blond feared he'd gone way too far, too soon. Blast him for talking when his brain wasn't online. After a moment of awkward silence and a deep breath John could feel physically, Sherlock replied, "Only if you want you to."

Well, there was only one possible answer to that. "I do. Want to. Things to change. Very much, really. But do you?" Yes, it was stilted, and he sounded like a bloody teenager, but John had never had the easiest time talking things out.

"I don't do casual sex, John, you know that. Of course I want to," Sherlock huffed, still not turning in his arms to face him. Sometimes it was easier to say things without the weight of a look. "...Love," he concluded, swallowing the fear that still – after all this – he might be (should be) rejected.

"Perfect, love. Boyfriends," John declared, utter, unmistakable happiness in his voice.

At that, his newly-minted boyfriend couldn't help himself. He turned in the circle of his arms and kissed him soundly. And yeah, they'd already done much more, and they were both just awake, but it felt like a seal. Like a promise. And it was. Perfect.

 _P.S. The odd title of this story is because what you in English call a threesome we in Italy call a triangle...and with two of them being the same soul in different universes, I thought isosceles would fit. Sorry for the silly pun._


End file.
